Whiting: Conquering Mount Whitney's summit

Columnist David Whiting battles fear as he ascends a near vertical wall at about 14,000 feet on Mount Whitney's East Buttress. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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With Iceberg Lake far below, David Whiting makes his way up the East Buttress on Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the Lower 48. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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Rock climbing guide and personal trainer Dennis George takes a breather on Mount Whitney's East Buttress. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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These camming devices in a crack high on Mount Whitney are designed to hold the weight of a falling climber. But such "protection" sometimes fails, leading to death. The climbing rope is threaded through a carabiner attached to the cam and belayed from above or below. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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Dennis George of Aliso Viejo exhales while surveying what he's climbed so far -- about half of Mount Whitney's East Buttress. Nearby peaks are reflected in his glasses as he prepares to continue the climb. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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Columnist David Whiting's rock climbing shoes fell apart near the top of Mount Whitney's East Buttress. The soles peeling off serve as a reminder to check and doublecheck all equipment before a climb. BY DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Rock jock and personal trainer Dennis George checks out the scene at about 13,500 feet. Mount Whitney is the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. George leads a climb up the East Buttress. BY DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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Climing through patches of snow, David Whiting makes his way up Mount Whitney's East Buttress, considered a classic climb. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

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Dawn breaks on the summit of Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. Columnist David Whiting and climbing partner Dennis George spent the night in the hut on the summit, moving around for hours to stave off hypothermia. BY DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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The sun's first rays hit the hut (right) on Mount Whitney, the highest mountian in the Lower 48. Columnist David Whiting and climbing partner Dennis George spent the night in the hut on the summit, moving around for hours to stave off hypothermia. BY DAVID WHITING, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

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After sunrise, David Whiting makes his way down Mount Whitney's Mountaineer's Route after he and climbing partner Dennis George made the summit via the East Buttress. COURTESY DENNIS GEORGE

MOUNT WHITNEY – I am a thousand feet up a near-vertical ridge on the highest mountain in the contiguous United States, and there's still another thousand feet before the summit.

Rock climbing expert Dennis George watches closely as I loop our climbing rope into something called a belay device.

George is about to lead what we think is the toughest stretch on Mount Whitney's East Buttress, a Cadillac-sized boulder perched on this granite rib that dwarfs the Empire State Building.

George climbs, hesitates, sees tiny protrusions and indentations that I can't see and disappears over the other side of the 5.7-rated crux.

I breathe to calm jangled nerves. After several hours of battling doubts, my mind somehow finds peace. I ignore the thousand-foot drops on both sides and focus only on the smooth boulder which, somehow, is no longer smooth.

Years of mountaineering and four months of technical rock climbing kick in. I find nubs and scoops in the rock that I couldn't have found only weeks ago. Relying on nothing but friction to counter gravity, I move with confidence, power and grace.

Meeting George on a ledge the size of a few coffee lids, we celebrate with fist bumps. I glance down, way down. Mount Whitney's Iceberg Lake looks like a turquoise puddle.

But neither George nor I realize there is another crux above, a 5.8 slice so smooth and steep it will test my outer limits.

And there is one more thing after that crux that we also don't expect, something that could end our climb in a bad way.

TICKING CLOCK

The East Buttress on Whitney has attracted climbers since 1937 when the route was first established.

There are a variety of factors which make this classic climb especially challenging. One is that you need to carry all your gear from Whitney Portal to Iceberg Lake, a brutally steep hike up 4,000 feet.

Also, the technical part of the ascent starts above 12,000 feet. At that altitude, the air is thin enough to send veteran climbers into cerebral edema, something I once dealt with tending to a delirious and vomiting friend.

Finally, the route, dotted with snow and ice on this day, requires nearly 2,000 vertical feet of ascent.

This is not an environment for error.

We hit the second crux. George tosses out a question he has never asked, a question which reveals much. Although he knows the answer, he asks if I'm on belay; prepared to stop the rope should he fall.

By now, we've been pushing our minds and bodies for nearly eight hours. We are nearing exhaustion. As George climbs out of my line of sight, I glace back at the vast floor of the Owens Valley, nearly 10,000 feet below.

A massive shadow creeps over the desert floor – the shadow of the High Sierra from the setting sun.

We are about to lose daylight.

EXHAUSTION SETS IN

Midway through the second crux, I can't find anything for my shoes to stick to or the slightest protrusion for my fingers.

If I fail, George and the rope should – hopefully – keep me from cascading into forever. But I don't think I have the strength to repeat the move.

I consider George's words before he cleaned the crux, dismissing exhaustion: "When you climb, you flip the switch."

Flip. My fingers wrap around the hold. I haul my body up.

I jam a shoe into a crack. The sole starts to separate like an open mouth.

I ram my arm into a split in rock. Blood drips.

Gasping for oxygen, I know I can't stop. Momentum is my ally against gravity.

Suddenly, I'm next to George. Believing what's above is little more than a scramble over a series of huge boulders, we grin, fist bump.

George looks at the darkening sky.

"We've got to move, fast."

CLIMBING IN DARKNESS

As night falls, the temperature drops and the winds pick up. Snow is in every nook and cranny.

But with only 30 feet to go, the height of a two-story house, I figure soon we'll either be descending the Mountaineer's Route or we'll be safe in the summit hut.

George tries to climb straight up, through granite blocks the size of a Suburban tipped nose to heaven. He goes left, right. But the Aliso Viejo resident can't find a way to ascend.

George, who also guides, disappears around a wall on the left. The minutes tick by. I consider the emergency bivy bag I left behind. If we coil the rope and use it for insulation, could we stave off hypothermia until first light?

"On belay."

The words are a whisper carried by wind. They mean George is safe, secure, and it's time for me to follow. But something is very wrong.

With George ready to belay, the rope should be relatively taut to prevent a long fall. But there are coils at my feet. The rope is stuck somewhere.

My headlamp shines on slack rope swaying in gusts. It shows where George went. There's a small platform, then an inky void, then another small platform the size of my foot.

The maneuver requires what's called a "step-across." It's a move a climber can only accomplish with total commitment, landing perfectly on the other side.

I have no choice but to succeed.

I gather the rope in my left hand. Shadows from my headlamp dance on granite.

I find a crack with my right hand, steady myself, let go and step.

SUMMIT DANCE

I land firmly. I inch my way around the corner. There is nothing to hold. At least the ledge is a beautiful 5 inches wide.

George has put protection into a crack that is level with my feet. I'm thankful for the pro, but hate the position. I bend down, one foot in front of the other, balance, and gingerly pluck out two cams.

Finally, I spot George above, illuminated by both our headlamps. With blasts of freezing air sweeping the summit, he shivers.

We scout around the starlit summit for the Mountaineer's Route but decide to pass. Too steep, too dark, too icy.

George wonders if the summit hut is locked. I tell him it's not, ever – praying I'm correct.

I push the hut's wood door open. We enter a small room with rock walls, metal roof, and a rough wood floor.

George smiles, "This is pretty warm."

"Wait until 3 a.m.," I advise, laughing because I now know that we'll live and that is a very wonderful feeling.

"It's going to be a very long night."

I tell a story about John Muir, the famed naturalist. Caught on Mount Whitney one October night in 1873, Muir wrote, "Had to dance all night to keep from freezing."

It's time to boogie.

David Whiting's columns also appear on News 1; dwhiting@ocregister.com.

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